Anywhere I Lay My Head
by The Orange Lady
Summary: In which Dean and Castiel take on an ordinary ghost-hunt outside Baltimore and get more on their plate than they bargained for. Slow build. Rated M for, you know, later chapters.
1. Chapter I: House Where Nobody Lives

**ANYWHERE I LAY MY HEAD**

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**CHAPTER I: HOUSE WHERE NOBODY LIVES**

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_In which there's music and a portentous hotel._

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It took Castiel a while to earn his shotgun privileges. He didn't get the loudly outspoken and reinforced rule of _'Driver picks the music and shotgun shuts his piehole'_. Castiel complained that he didn't like the Rolling Stones or the Scorpions because he had heard their songs one too many times, and that was pretty high on Dean's death list.

"But you've heard these songs like a gazillion times, why wait to bitch about it now? You've been listening to this for years," Dean wondered and switched to Led Zeppelin. You just couldn't go wrong with Led Zeppelin.

"It was different before. I can't tune it out like I used to," Castiel sniffled from the backseat. He was coming out of his first cold ever, and had sniffled uncontrollably for two weeks. It was getting on everyone's nerves.

"Is it another angel whammy thing you've lost? Must've been nice to just shut off whatever noise you hate. Would make sleeping in motels a helluva lot easier. What kind of sounds did you leave on then? Obviously not the Stones, but hey."

"I used to listen to the sounds I liked. Bird song, heart beats, wind and voices…"

"Whoa, must've been awesome to turn off annoying people. I wish I could do that, it would make road trips with Sammy so incredibly much better. Hold on, you listened to heartbeats?"

"Yes, I liked it. It made me feel safe. It says so much about a person. I miss that now. I can sit here in the backseat, this close to you, and still not hear you."

"Uh, okay," said Dean and white-knuckled the steering wheel. He took a right turn off the highway to Baltimore. "So, you'd know we where were from the sounds of our heartbeats, huh?"

"Yes. Sam's heart is both slower and has a lower sound, and it changes takes time to speed up when he exerts himself. Yours is faster, but stronger. Changes the rhythm faster, too. I could pick you out in a crowd just by listening to your heart." Castiel blushed and borrowed his chin down in his scarf. "Sometimes it was so loud I could hardly focus on anything else when you were around. I miss that. In some ways the world is a lot louder now that I'm human, but now sometimes it will get so quiet that I'm scared by it."

"Wow, that's some radical honesty right there. Have you and Sam had the talk about honesty and little white lies to cover your butt?" Dean saw Castiel nod in the rear mirror. "Good, 'cause it's totally okay to do that sometimes. Do you like this music, or should I turn it off?" Castiel nodded again and leaned against the car window. The suburbs of Baltimore were tucked into a heavy curtain of gray rain and Led Zeppelin's _Babe I'm Gonna Leave You_.

"Okay, we're there soon. Do you remember the plan?"

"Yes, Dean."

"Let's go over it again. Better safe than sorry. We check in to the hotel slash creepy ex-asylum for the criminally insane, I locate this ghost and gank it, we stay the night, take it easy for a day and then we go to Sam in Lexington. Tell me again, what's your part of the plan?"

"I'm going to stay in the room inside of a salt line until your say-so," Castiel grumbled.

"Damned straight you will. Get some sleep. Best medicine for the common cold. This case will be easy though, probably over in a couple of hours. Loony bins can be riddled with ghosts, and here we have just one. Piece of cake if you ask me."

...

The asylum, now hotel, was a big official looking building. The architect had made no efforts in making the house look even slightly welcoming, although someone had tried to paint it in a desperately friendly yellow color. The paint didn't fool anyone. Though the inside of the building no doubt had been changed for the massively better, the outside still told that it was a place where miserable people came to become even more miserable and then die. It was a house that imposed itself on people's souls. Dean ignored it — he had fought houses before and won — but he could have sworn that he saw Castiel shrink a couple of inches. Dean grabbed his shoulder and dragged both man and their bags inside.

"Hello-how-may-I-help-you," twittered the platinum blonde woman in reception. She fired off a predatory smile at them both, which it made Castiel shrink an inch more. He had never gotten the hang of casual flirting. No, scratch that, he had never gotten the hang of flirting. Dean knew he'd have to have a _talk_ about it some day soon.

"A room please. Two beds, two nights. You got any vacant?" Dean smirked. He could handle predatory blondes. He was one himself, after all.

"Sure, I can fix you up. You want the newly weds suite or one of our regular two bed rooms?" The words were round in her mouth, the R's forgotten in a distinct New Jersey accent.

"Neither Dean or I are newly married. Why would we want a suite for newly weds?" Castiel asked gravely.

"Well, it's our nicest room and there's a complimentary bottle of champagne."

"Sold," said Dean.

...

The newly weds suite had been the office of the warden. It had an iron stove, a queen-sized bed, big windows and a small balcony overlooking the asylum grounds and the forest. The microscopic bathroom was in green marble and incorporated the smallest bathtub Dean had ever seen.

"Lady, are you sure we only have to pay thirty bucks for this room and a bottle of champagne? I mean, this is _really_ nice."

"Sure, honey. It's off-season. Even though we're kind of close to the city nobody ever comes out here in the winter. There are only you guys, a Dutch couple down the hall, and the professor, of course. It's a pity to have this room empty, don't you think? It's pretty, isn't it? We had it renovated the year before last, and I got to pick out the décor."

"It is very white," Castiel sniffled. "And cold."

"Yeah, sorry, we haven't gotten the oil pan going yet. They'll fix it in a couple of days they said. If you want to you can make a fire in the fireplace. Breakfast is served between six and nine," the platinum blonde woman informed them and winked almost comically at Dean. "Well now, nighty-night."

"Good night," Castiel told her solemnly and shut the door behind her. "Strange woman. She could not say 'R'."

"That's called having an accent. I bet my ass she's from New Jersey. And take your cap and coat off, you can't have that on inside."

"But Dean, it's cold. Just because we're inside doesn't mean we have to freeze."

"I'll fix the salt lines and then get a fire going. We'll be warm in no time. Take the coat off and you can go to bed. Okay?"

Dean filled the iron stove with logs, newspapers and white firelighter cubes he found in a drawer. The firelighters consequently put the flames out, but once Dean had poked them to the side, he got the fire started quickly. When he turned to say something triumphantly about it to Castiel, he saw that the ex-angel had gathered all the blankets and built a nest out of them on the bed. His feet were conspiciously sticking out from it.

"Hey, I'm going to do some ghost-hunting. Keep an eye on the fire, we don't want to burn the place down. I'll be back in a while, okay?"

"Okay, Dean," mumbled the angel from under the pile of blankets. Dean could hear he was seconds away from sleep. When it came to naps Castiel had the self-control of a two-year-old. It was a good quality to have. Dean would have given his left kidney to cuddle up with him on the bed right then and there, but knew better than to do it. Job first, guilty pleasures later. He shook his head.

"Okay."

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_(First part out of five. It's going to be slow-building fic with some actual plot, so hang in there! Titles after songs by Tom Waits. I hope you like it!)_


	2. Chapter II: A Good Man Is Hard To Find

**CHAPTER II: A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND**

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_In which there's booze, blankets and old doctors._

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There was no ghost to be found. The corridors at the first floor, where their room was, had been painted pale red. Dean tried to break into some of the rooms, but they were locked, and he didn't feel like getting his lock picking set from the car. Then he decided to find the bar. All hotels had a bar. The only question was where. He checked the common room, but the cupboards were filled with books and board games. No booze or people were in sight.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor, where everything was in a blue colorscheme. The common room on that floor had a pool table, also blue, and bookcases so magnificent he had to send a picture of them to Sam.

The top floor was in a tasteful gray. Still no people or bars in sight. The common room there was shut off with chains and a padlock, but when Dean tugged at it, it fell open in his hand. He sneaked in. There was a big fire roaring in the hearth, but otherwise the room was dark.

"The fuck," said Dean, confused.

"Hello?" came a thin voice from an armchair. "Hello, is there anybody there?" A white head popped up over the headrest. At first Dean thought it was the ghost, but when the old man put on his thick glasses he knew he wasn't one. Not yet, at least.

"Sorry if I disturbed you. I'm just exploring the house. Didn't expect to find anyone in here."

"No, don't you worry about that. Why don't you stay for a while? I wouldn't mind the company."

"I don't want to intrude. If you point me in the direction of the bar I'll be on my way."

"There is no bar. The new owner is a recovering alcoholic. But I've got some perfectly good Famous Grouse right here. Why don't you help yourself?"

Dean plopped down in the leather sofa opposite the old man and poured himself a glass. There was no way he was saying no to free booze, especially not if it was halfway decent whiskey.

"So, what are you doing here all by your lonesome?" he asked.

"Oh, just enjoying the room. This really is a beautiful house, don't you think? It's better now than it was before, I got to tell you," the old man rasped and pushed his spectacles up his nose. White hair floated around his head like a cloud, and he wore a cabled knit sweater of a kind that Dean up until then had been fairly certain didn't exist outside Christmas themed ladies magazines.

"You, eh, been here before they turned it into a hotel? I heard it was a mental institution, crazy huh?"

"Oh yes, I know. Why, I worked here myself. Didn't Lindsey tell you?"

"Who's Lindsey?" Dean asked, starting to worry about her being another ghost ready for some salt'n'torch treatment.

"The girl in reception! You must've met her. Nice girl, very blonde. Persists in calling me the professor. I really prefer Doctor Ebers, and Howard is even better. Nice to meet you, by the way, young man!" He extended a knobby hand over the coffee table and Dean shook it.

"You too. I'm Dean."

"What are you doing here? Vacationing?"

"My colleague and I are doing some research. Looking at our family trees, you know. We traced one of his ancestors here, so we figured it would be an experience to stay in the place he was incarcerated. Actually, the guy was murdered here back in 1952. The papers we found said that his throat was cut and that they never figured out who did it. Some nurse was blamed, and killed herself in jail, but then it turned out she had an alibi. Her name was Simona Carling. Pretty gruesome, right? Did you hear anything about that when you worked here, Doctor Ebers?"

"Oh, that. It happened before my time, believe it or not. It happened, oh, five years before I got here. The nurses still talked about it. I read all of his files, in secret of course. The warden didn't like us snooping…" said Doctor Ebers and smiled. "The poor man's name was William Greene, wasn't it? I felt like I got to know the chap quite well. Always seemed like a perfectly nice young man. A bit psychotic at times, yes, but never violent and always polite."

"Well, fancy that! Cas — my colleague will be thrilled to hear about it." Dean decided it was time to go for a shot in the dark. "Let me guess, you come to this room because it reminds you of him. Right?"

"Yes," the old man mused. "How did you know that?"

"Just a hunch, Doc. Now, do you believe in ghosts?" The old mans face twisted into a crooked smile, and then he shrugged like he'd been caught.

"Yeah, I thought so," Dean continued. "Mr. Greene, could you show yourself? Please?"

The air next to Dean shivered and a tiny man appeared at the sofa beside him, only a couple of inches away.

"Whoa, personal space!" Dean yelled.

"I sat here first," the ghost informed him with a thin voice, without making eye contact. "And you're lying. I have no idea who or _what_ your so-called colleague is, but he is not related to me at all. He's giving off… background noise. It's upsetting me. I'd feel better if you left."

"Sorry about that. That was just to break the ice. We'll be leaving soon enough."

"No, you won't. You're hunters. I heard you before. You won't leave until you've killed me."

"Greene, don't take this the wrong way, but you're already dead as a doornail. You seem like a reasonable guy, wouldn't you like some eternal peace?" The little man chuckled and convulsively clutched the fabric of his trousers.

"No, not yet. I can't go yet. I don't deserve it."

"Well, I can't allow you to stay here," Dean said. "Either I torch your bones and you're done, or we'll figure out a way for you to go peacefully. What's it gonna to be?"

"You hunters, you just don't understand. The nurse — she killed herself because of me. Do you understand that? It's my fault Simona died. Nothing can undo that. I deserve this. She died because of me."

"Now, William, I have told you that you can't blame yourself for that. It was very unfortuate that she was accused of your murder, but in the end it was her choice to end her own life," the old doctor pitched in.

"Okay, so you're beat up about the dead nurse. I get it," Dean said. "But what do you think about us figuring out who killed you? 'Cause, you see, I can't help but think that your murderer is responsible for the deaths of both you and the nurse."

"You think we haven't tried that? You think that after all these years, we haven't tried?" The ghosts voice was acidic and barely audible. Dean and Doctor Ebers exchanged looks.

"I figured that as well. But you know what I've got that you haven't? I've got access to pretty much any information the City of Baltimore has on file. If there is anything at all about this, I can help you find it. Just give me some time."

"There's no way you can solve this. The case is over fifty years old. You'll find nothing. Just give up and leave now. Please."

"Well, in that case we can always fall back on the old kerosene and salt. What's it gonna be, ghost?" The ghost of William Greene gasped angrily and flickered out of existence.

"Do you think you can solve this? Do you think you can give him peace?" Doctor Ebers whispered hopefully a moment later.

"Maybe," Dean offered truthfully. "You may have a lifetime of experience of psychos, but I've hunted ghosts and other stuff for a lifetime. I can probably do this. If you could point me in the right direction it would be a great start, though."

"You should check the records of the asylums staff through 1947 to 1952. Keep an eye out for a Doctor White. He left a month before I got here. I've always suspected him, but we couldn't prove anything. But then, I never had access to the City records. If you let me talk to William, he could probably give me some pointers as well," the old man said hastily. "Oh, and have this."

He dug around his pocket, produced a small carton and then dropped something in Dean's extended palm. He eyed it suspiciously.

"Is this what I think it is?"

"If you think it's a finger bone, yes. Belonged to William Greene. Take good care of it. I figure it might help him to tag along, should you go into the city. Good night now."

Dean took the cue to down what was left of his whiskey and sneak out of the common room.

This had been a big break in the case. Not only had he met someone who had done the groundwork for him, he had actually spoken with the ghost in question. Sam would be intrigued by this one, he knew that. Even if William Greene hadn't been that eloquent, he had been collected and said his piece — something that was very rare for ghosts produced by horrendrous murder. Dean began laying out plans for the next day. He'd swing by the archives in the city to check out the records Doctor Ebers had recommended, then check up on Sam, and maybe have a drink out…

As he lumbered down the stairs to the first floor a cold gust of wind wrapped around him. The hair on his neck stood up.

"You won't find anything. Can't you just take your friend and go? I don't like him. I don't like you. Leave me alone, I deserve this."

"Fuck you, ghost. Maybe I'm doing this for Doctor Ebers. He's worried about you. You might deserve this, but he deserves some peace and quiet," Dean wheezed angrily into thin air. "Fuck you, you fucking psycho ghost."

The salt lines in their room hadn't been disturbed, but Dean checked them all thoroughly anyway. Force of habit. It never hurt to go OCD on the important security stuff. The fire in the stove was flickering out, and the old TV was showing static. The pile of blankets had grown in his absence and it snored softly. Deep down in there he assumed there would be an angel. Dean took a moment to seep in the calm and the weird sense of home it instilled in him. The room was warmer, but it was decidedly not warm yet.

Dean took his time brushing his teeth, and stripped down to his whites, stole some of the topmost blankets from the pile and crawled onto the little space that was left of the matress. Springs squeaked under the added weight, and the angelic snoring halted.

"Move over, Cas. Cold or not, you don't need this much of the bed."

"Dean," came a contented sigh. Castiel didn't move an inch, so Dean reached into the blanket nest and pushed at the solid body. It was a big bed, and he'd be damned if he didn't get his fair share of it. It was really very warm in the blanket pile, so Dean didn't bother pulling out again. He grabbed hold of what he thought was a shoulder. In the warm darkness he felt safe, like he could forget that there was a world outside of the bed, him and his Cas. Dean took a deep breath.

"Good night," he mumbled. He put his forehead against Castiel's neck and let sleep reel him in. Dean knew Castiel wouldn't mind.


	3. Chapter III: Innocent When You Dream

**CHAPTER III: INNOCENT WHEN YOU DREAM**

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_In which the boys sleep in and research is done._

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Dean woke up warmer than he had any right to be. It was dark and it took Dean a while to realize he was seeing the blanket fort from the inside. Something hot and sweaty was plastered to his chest and he was becoming increasingly sure that it was a fallen angel. Stubble was itching where Dean's t-shirt had ridden up, but he was too tired and comfortable to be ticklish. Dean was conflicted if he should jump up and tear Castiel a new one about personal space and bedding arrangements or just go back to sleep and pretend not to have noticed. After some deep thought he settled on the middle ground.

"Hey Cas, wakey wakey," he grumbled and carded his fingers through the angel's messy hair. "Come on, you gotta move. Find your own goddamned pillow." Castiel shivered awake, opened one eye and peeked up at Dean in the semidarkness.

"Hey," he said and smiled down in Dean's t-shirt. Usually his voice was rough like he had smoked a million cigarettes and been Winston Churchill's drinking partner, but in the mornings it had a softer, deeper tone. Dean liked his voice either way, but the morning voice was special. He couldn't have enough of it.

"I can hear your heart now," Castiel added groggily.

"Come on, get up!" Dean told him without much conviction, but then he glanced at his watch. It was ten to nine. The proverbial penny dropped somewhere in his brain. "Oh shit, we'll miss breakfast!"

He pushed the complaining angel off his stomach and rolled off the bed. In a magnificent feat of acrobatics he pulled on both jeans and shirt in one move and jumped into socks and boots. Castiel was still sprawled on the bed, face down, with the pile of blankets towering on his ass. He looked like an overgrown snail. Dean would have laughed himself silly if they weren't about to miss breakfast. Things like that were important.

"Come on, get up already. We're missing breakfast. Breakfast, Cas!" A raspy groan emerged from the mattress that Dean interpreted as "go ahead without me".

"Suit yourself," he said and bounded off to the dining hall at the first floor. The corridors looked different in the bright morning sun. He almost ran into two elderly people in matching jackets and caps, but saved the situation with Flirty Smile™ and a too hearty good morning.

"Amerikanen," he heard the old man mutter disapprovingly behind him, while his wife tsked and tutted.

The dining hall had not been altered since the asylum days. The walls and the ceiling were white and the furniture aluminum. The only real differences were that the cautionary signs had been removed and that there were cushions on the metal chairs. Also, the cook had been replaced. When the asylum had turned hotel, the old cook was alive and well and eager to continue to work within the same walls, but the new owners had a set of standards. The standards were not high, mind, but they still felt that their customers deserved better than the stuff that the previous inmates had to put up with. The cook had not left her place gracefully. Unexplainable stenches lingered in some rooms and the cleaners still found moldy shrimps taped to the backside of cupboards and under beds, years after. When Dean first heard about the haunted hotel, he had first investigated the angry cook, but found out that she was in alive, well into her nineties and still very angry.

Dean didn't mind the asylum chic milieu, because there was breakfast. Real breakfast at a table with a tablecloth. Very lovingly he worked his way through the buffet. Freshly baked bread of a color Sam would not approve of, bacon, eggs, fruit salad and yoghurt — Dean was in heaven.

"Good morning, Mr. Kowalski. The buffet will be closing in five minutes. Will your friend be down?" the blonde woman from reception twittered at him. She leaned over the table as she spoke to him, and managed to show of her lace bra in the process. Dean vaguely remembered that her name was Lindsey.

"Nope. I'll take some bread and fruit for him, if that's okay with you. He gets pissy when he's hungry, you know the type."

The blonde woman giggled.

"Just like me then! And I'm always hungry," she tweeted and retreated behind the counters. She lit up a cigarette and eyed Dean while he cleaned his plates.

…..

Between having his first cold and absolutely hating bigger cities, Castiel managed to convince Dean to let him stay at the hotel for the day. Dean didn't like it one bit, but he had to admit that going without Castiel would make it easier to sneak into the Baltimore City archives.

Dean shaved properly, while Castiel watched him from the doorway. But then the angel had a coughing fit from standing up too long, went back to the bed and switched on the TV. The channel that was on showed reruns of old Mythbusters episodes and Castiel was instantly glued to the screen, sometimes explaining to them how they could boost their experiments with spells and incantations. Dean couldn't help but to chuckle at him while he got dressed in his monkey suit. He chose an appropriate laminate card to match.

If Dean could, he wouldn't leave the room at all that day and just cuddle up on the bed with Castiel, order room service and watch the Mythbusters blow up stuff. Something warm and fuzzy about the morning stayed with him, and he dreaded that it'd end once he left. Job comes first, his internalized Sam told him. Job always comes first.

"I'm leaving now," he said and patted Castiel on the shoulder. "I bet Lindsey can fix you some lunch if you ask nicely. Call if you need me. And get some sleep, okay? Best medicine there is against the common cold. See you tonight."

Castiel followed him to the door, dressed in several layers of old shirts and blankets. For a while there it looked to Dean as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't. Instead he slid his thumb over Dean's tie and gave him a weak push.

"Good bye, Dean."

…..

The drive into Baltimore took Dean an hour. Faking his way past the security guard was easier than finding parking space outside the city archive. Dean made sure he was alone in the crowded basement before scratching at the finger bone in his pocket.

"Come on, ghost. Help me out here! What are we looking for?" When nothing happened, no cold spots or ominous voices, he started carving at the bone with his knife.

"Stop! Stop it!" cried a thin voice in his ear, like static from a broken radio. It made his head spin.

"Should've answered the first time I called you," he sneered back. "Now, what are we looking for here?"

"You should find the files of employees at the asylum. It should be over by the green shelf on ail fifteen. There's where they kept info on the city's hospitals and institutions."

"Damn, you know your shit, ghost. You done this before?"

"You can say that. I worked in law enforcement before I was… hospitalized. It was the work that… It broke me. I've been in this cellar for weeks and weeks. It hasn't changed a bit since then."

"Well, who would've thunk?" Dean mumbled and went looking for the green shelf in ail fifteen. It wasn't all that hard to find. It was stocked with binders that looked as if they hadn't been touched since they had been put there. Thankfully they were sorted in chronological order with neat color-coded labels.

"Look at the list of employees that clocked in on November seventh 1952. The night shift," the ghost of William Greene whispered feverishly into his ear.

"Uh huh. Yearbook of fifty-two, coming straight up. Okay, night shift, November seventh: Doctor Eliot Leibnitz, Doctor Andrew White, Nurses Donna Brown, Barbara Gomez, Gertrude Jenkins and Simona Carling. Any of those ring a bell?"

"Yes, yes, I knew all of them. Can you check if any of them quit that year? Anytime after that date."

Dean put the first binder on the floor and picked out another. Only a couple of minutes later he found it.

"Okay, nurse Brown and Gomez quit in December stating they couldn't stay after, I quote, 'the unfortunate incident with Nurse Carling's demise'. Doctor Leibnitz took an early retirement in January. Why, you think one of them did it?"

"No. I think that the murderer stayed on."

There was a grim pause as Dean mulled it over.

"Wow," he said. "Well, you think any of them are alive? I could interview them, get some info…"

"No, they are all dead. Doctor Ebers was kind enough to check that for me some time ago."

"Well, we can check out the graves of the remaining suspects. Doc White and nurse Jenkins it is. We can dig 'em up and torch 'em both. What do you like that?"

The room was at once filled with static that made the hair on Dean's neck stand up. It reminded him of the early days of communicating with Castiel. William Greene manifested in his corporeal form, and he looked pissed.

"I need to know who did this to me and nurse Carling, and why," he whispered in Dean's ear. "I need to know."

"Okay. Capisce. So how about we stake out the graves of our top suspects and see if anything goes bump in the night? Murderers do not make restful souls, let me tell you that. It might take a while, and it's not a hundred percent, but I'd say it's worth a shot," Dean reasoned. "You can't remain a ghost, but I'd feel bad if I had to waste you, now that we've been working and talking together. You seem like a nice guy, you know? Man, my brother would be so damned proud of me, making friends with Casper the Friendly Ghost. He's all gung-ho about reaching out and cooperating beyond the veil. You could team up, have a bromance over dead stuff and get married in Vermont. No, seriously."

The ghost of William Greene gave him an unimpressed glance, sighed and disappeared in a puff of pale smoke.

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_(There'll be a little more action in the next chapter, I promise! You'll have to wait until next week, though. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please review and make me oh so very happy!)_


	4. Chapter IV: Grapefruit Moon

**CHAPTER IV: GRAPEFRUIT MOON**

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_In which there are several perils on the graveyard shift._

* * *

"Hey, we're taking the graveyard shift tonight. Literally. I want you to come with so I can keep an eye on you. And you'll help me with not getting bored out of my mind. Okay?" It wasn't really a question. Dean didn't like to leave Castiel alone for more than a few hours, especially not overnight. Historically, Castiel had a tendency to disappear when left unsupervized, which was something that Dean wasn't really comfortable with.

"Okay," said the angel and nodded.

Dean packed what they needed, but it wasn't much. Some knives, salt and extra clothes they might need, but most of it was in the Impala already. Before they left Dean gave Castiel a once-over. Though the angel was wearing Sam's old sweatpants, double layers of plaid shirts under his cardigan and trench coat, he still looked as if he was freezing. He didn't wear his tie, though. Not anymore.

"We should bring some blankets as well," Dean concluded. "You'll be cold if you're gonna sit in the car all night."

"I thought I was going to help you find the murderer."

"Yeah. Right."

* * *

It's never easy to find a specific grave in an unknown cemetery. It's even harder by night. But Dean had his tricks. He had brought a map and a GPS. It only took them an hour to locate the tombstone of Doctor Andrew White after thay had entered the cemetery, which definitely was in the top ten list of quick grave-finds. Dean took a quick run about the grave with the EMP in one hand and shotgun in the other, but as far as he was concerned Doctor White was dead as a doornail and stayed that way even in the afterlife. The EMP flatlined. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Not even background noise. He went back to the car.

"Nothing. Yet. But you never know with these fuckers. Maybe he's just hiding from us or whatever ghosts do to trick us into thinking everything is alright. Crafty fellers. We should stay around a while longer, just to make sure. Then we'll move on to dear departed nurse Jenkins. Okay?" Castiel nodded. "Okay. Then let's go over the plan again. We'll keep watch on the graves of Doc and nurse, and you'll…"

"Stay in the car until your say-so and you will find out who the ghost is, dig up it's grave and burn it's remains."

"Exactly."

Dean started to do whatever to make time pass. He rifled through his music collection without finding anything he felt like listening to that he knew Castiel wouldn't mind, he checked all of his cellphones, he put his music collection in alphabetical order, he made and unmade dogears on relevant pages in the road-atlas, he read through the files he had gotten from the Baltimore City archives, and… All the time he could feel Castiel staring at him in the dark.

"What?" Dean asked, and sounded a lot terser than he had intended. "Sorry."

"I'm cold," Castiel sniffled. He sounded small.

"You've got all the blankets. If I turn on the heating the battery will run low and we'll never get away from here. There's nothing I can do for you."

"Can't you do what you did last night?"

At first Dean had no idea what he was talking about, what had he done last night? But then he realized. Was he going to cuddle a fallen angel in the backseat for warmth? Why yes, yes he was. He crawled in beside Castiel on the tight backseat.

"Hey, you have to lie on top of me, otherwise I'm going to roll off." It was easier said than done, though. They tried to rearrange themselves, but neither of them could move freely and when they tried the blankets twisted around them like a boa constrictor. It was a bit awkward, really. Dean had never lain down in the backseat with someone else before for nonsexual purposes. In the end Dean sprawled on top, nose buried in rough stubble, and Castiel would give off a strangulated wheeze everytime he moved.

"Dean, you're heavy."

"Oh, shut up. You're warmer now, ain't you?" Dean was overwhelmed with how tired he suddenly he was. The warmth and proximity to another body just made him sag. Castiel smelled like detergent and fresh sweat. "'M gonna sleep now. Wake me if anything happens."

* * *

Dean woke up when Castiel started to move. It was irritating. He caught hold of his wrists and pushed them down above his shoulders, and used his sleepy body to try to keep him still. It didn't help though. Pinning Castiel down only made him squirm more frantically. That was when Dean felt it. Not only was he himself sporting morning wood, or whatever you called it at three AM, but so was Castiel. In a heartbeat they were sitting as far away they could get from each other in the cramped backseat. Castiel had piled the blankets in a strategic heap in his lap and bent his head down like an ashamed dog. It may have been dark, but Dean knew Castiel was blushing furiously.

"Sorry."

"No, it's okay. It, you know, it happens. It's okay. My fault, should've known."

Dean checked the EMP and peeked out at the grave. Still nothing. Not even a strange looking shadow or gust of wind. If Doctor Andrew White had ever done something wrong, he was clearly coping well with it in his afterlife.

"Well, there haven't been any paranormal activity going on here, so let's skip to the next lot."

The next charter of the graveyard was smaller, and it wasn't too hard to find the grave of Nurse Gertrude Jenkins. A gray dawn was creeping in with its soft tendrils of mist. Dean went ahead with the shovel hefted on one shoulder and the EMP in as a guide in front of him. As they got closer to Nurse Jenkins' tombstone, the device lit up like a Christmas tree. Dean had to tear the headphones out to avoid tinnitus. Castiel trailed behind him with dunks of gasoline and salt and looked downright miserable in the cold and wet. Dean made a mental note of getting him a pair of nice and warm gloves. Sam would approve. And probably mock him for being mother hen, but hey, totally worth it.

"Yep, here it is." Dean slung the shovel down from his shoulder and started digging away. The dirt was wet and heavy and pale worms slithered away from each shovelfull. The grave was shallow, and Dean thanked God when he hit the casket lid only four feet down.

Then a cold hand slithered around Dean's neck from behind and pulled hard. He was thrown against the wall of the grave and the air pushed out of his lungs. He wouldn't have seen the ghost if it wasn't for the once white nurse uniform glowing in the darkness of the grave.

"You murdered William Greene, you bitch," Dean told the ghost.

"Oh, poor little William!" the nurse cackled. Broken teeth flashed white in the darkness. "The doctors so loved him, they didn't see him for the sick and evil man he was. They were going to release him, did you know that? Killing him was a mercy. He would've defiled society. And doing it felt so good."

"You evil cu—"

"And darling Simona Carling," she went on in a sing-song voice. "Negro whore! They both had it coming. It wasn't murder, it was mercy. Mercy on them and on society. They were sick, they couldn't mix with real people. They couldn't be helped. Like you. Just like you. Freaks. Monsters. Psychos."

"You Nazi bitch! Let go—" Dean started, but was strangled halfway by rotted insubstantial hands. The corpse stench was made his eyes tear. He was vaguely aware of someone screaming his name over and over.

"Simona made it so easy to get away with. It was perfect! The stupid whore took off early that day, and I could just slip into the infirmary and up the dosage of morphine. Two birds with one stone! Not only did I get rid of a psychotic vermin, but also a good-for-nothing uppity negro bitch. The whore was fucking one of the doctors. Who did she think she was? It was so easy to blame her. It. Was. Perfect. Society should thank me, I should be th—"

The ghost burst out in fire and screamed until Dean thought her face would melt off. Then she disappeared.

"Thanks Cas," Dean wheezed, still trying to get back to breathing normally.

"Dean!" Castiel flung the dunks of salt and gas aside, and jumped down in the grave to kneel over him. "Dean, are you hurt?"

"No, I'm okay. I'm okay."

Castiel didn't seem to hear him and tore open the top buttons of his shirt and put his hands where Dean was pretty sure bruises had started to show. Breathing hurt, but it probably looked worse than it actually was.

"Your hands are cold," Dean told him. "And I meant it. I'm okay."

Castiel looked like he didn't believe him, all wild and wide-eyed. His hands stopped clawing at him though, and started to nervously fiddle and stroke along the skin on Dean's neck. He cleared his throat. Castiel tried to fasten the shirt again, but he had torn some of the buttons off. In the dusk, Dean could almost see his lower lip tremble. If he didn't know better he'd say Castiel was close to tears.

"Hey, I said I'm okay," Dean tried to reassure his friend. "I'm good."

"Sorry," Castiel whispered, warm breath fluttering on his cheek. Despite the wet dirt eating through his clothes and the coldness of the grave, Dean didn't want the moment to end.

* * *

When they came back to the hotel at five o'clock in the morning, there was just one more thing to do. They went straight up to the second floor, and Dean tapped lightly at the door at the end of the corridor. It opened within seconds.

"What on earth happened to you?" Doctor Ebers cried. "And what is that godawful smell?"

"A ghost happened to me. Not the cute and cuddly kind like your William. What you smell is gravedirt. Don't overanalyze it too much."

"Did you… did you fix it?"

"We sure did. Wouldn't have walked away from this one if it wasn't for my partner here. Bitch nurse got a sleeper hold on me. Now, lets go talk to dead people."

They mounted the stairs to the top floor and entered the common room where they had first met. The three of them must've made a strange sight: Dean and Castiel with torn clothes caked in dirt, and the little old Doctor in his neat pyjamas and cardigan. But the hotel was dark and empty, the only light the few early rays of sunshine that found it's way through a window, and nobody saw them.

"I summon thee, spirit of late William Greene!" Dean proclaimed and scratched at the finger bone in his pocket. "So we dug up the racist bitch nurse named Gertrude Jenkins and torched her. Turns out she not only killed you, but framed the poor nurse who committed suicide. She admitted to it. She put up a fight, but my friend here got to her alright. She is finished. Ganked. Ended. That good with you?"

The room shimmered and shook, as if the air was static. A slim shape appeared by the fireplace. William Greene smiled broadly at them all.

"Yes. Thank you. I think I can get some rest," the ghost said and flickered out of relief. "But not yet. You have something of mine. I want you to get rid of it for me."

"This?" Dean fished up the finger bone from his pocket and the ghost nodded. He put it on the hearth and lit a match. The bone was already dry and old, and caught on fire in a heart beat. In a moment it crumbled to ashes.

"Now I am content," William Greene whispered. One moment he was a dim figure by the fireplace, and then he was gone.

* * *

Doctor Ebers wiped his glasses on his pyjamas and pretended not to cry. It was a good sort of pretending not to cry, it was non-tears of relief. He looked a bit out of place in the common room, just a tired elderly man in his pyjamas then, no longer responsible for any old secrets or ghosts.

"Now that's a load off my back," he told them shakily. "Thank you, young men. William got his freedom now and I can go back to being an ordinary grouchy geezer. I'll miss him, but at the same time it's a huge load off my back. Thank you, young men, thank you very much."

"Couldn't have done it with out you, Doc. Nothing helps out like some first hand information. If there's anything else, ghosts or whatever, just call me," Dean said and handed him a scrap of paper with one of his phone numbers scrawled down. Doctor Ebers took the note, looked at it and smiled.

"I highly doubt it," he mumbled and stumbled back into his room, without looking back. That was the last they saw of him.

Dean felt a tug at his sleeve. Castiel was staring wide-eyed, first at the place where the ghost had been and then straight into Deans heart, approximately.

"That was beautiful," he said.

"Yeah, it was, wasn't it? All ghosts should go like that."

* * *

_(We ain't done just yet, one more chapter to go! Hope you enjoyed this part as well, please leave a comment and share your thoughts!)_


	5. Chapter V: Diamonds On My Windshield

**CHAPTER V: DIAMONDS ON MY WINDSHIELD**

* * *

_In which things are resolved._

* * *

"Okay, hurry up and pack your things and then we're out of here," Dean said. He was already packed and ready to go, but Castiel wasn't. Living on the road for pretty much all his life had instilled the habit of not spreading his belongings around. They stayed in the duffel bag. Castiel was still unused to the whole concept of belongings, and was going through different phases of spreading them around and arranging them in the rooms they stayed. Dean was both annoyed and heartbroken by this, while Sam seemed to approve of it for some reason. Castiel treated his few things with such care, like they were made of precious porcelain. Now he was zooming around the room and throwing his stuff at his bag and forcing them down, which was not a good sign.

"Slow down, Cas, I said 'hurry' not 'run your balls off'. Chill, dude," Dean remarked, but Castiel didn't listen.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked and grabbed the smaller mans shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry."

"What?" Castiel turned bright red and Dean knew at that moment that he'd have to use deadly force to make Castiel look him in the eye. "It's about this morning, isn't it? I told you it was okay. You don't have to feel bad about it. It happened to me too, okay? I don't feel bad about it, just, you know, embarrassed. It's the body's response to being close to somebody. It doesn't have to be sexual. Heck, I don't think of you that way at all."

It was totally okay to tell white lies to a fallen angel experiencing his first sexual crisis, Dean figured, even if it hurt like someone was using his goddamned soul as a dart target. Castiel didn't look reassured at all.

"Awkward boners are a part of being human. It's a bit like getting splinters, or dirt in your eyes. It's not nice, you just have to learn how to deal with it." Dean, for example, was getting an awkward dose of self-loathing by saying those words out loud, but that was life as well. He could deal. Castiel didn't need the extra burden of his even more awkward feelings or fucking affection towards him.

Dean grabbed the free champagne out of the minifridge and wrapped it in a t-shirt. He and Sam would make a night out of it, and he figured Castiel could probably use getting to know the finer stuff in life. The label wasn't all that fancy, but neither of them usually went for anything fancier than the cheapest vodka or tequila in stock.

"Okay. Spill it. Tell me what's wrong. Forget what I said before. We're not leaving this room until you tell me what's up." Castiel didn't lift his eyes from the carpet, but at least he muttered something.

"What? Say that again, will you?"

"About this morning. I'm sorry. But it felt really good. I'm so ashamed, and I know you didn't…" Castiel said, and then added: "I think I might be in love with you."

Dean felt like sitting down. So he stumbled over to the bed and did.

"I've been for a while, I think. You have no idea how hard has been these past few days, sharing this room, this bed, with you. And then you almost died, that ghost… I don't know how much more of this I can take," Castiel said. "I knew it was a bad idea to tell you this. You have made it clear that you don't reciprocate at all, but you forced me to. I… I think I'll go outside and wait in the car now."

Castiel took his duffel bag and slammed the door shut behind him. Dean was too busy with staring at his hands to follow him, and with wondering how the Hell he could have missed something as vital as Castiel being in love with him when he had thought about little else for the past months. He himself had tried his best to hide his own intentions, sure, but Castiel hadn't exactly mastered subtlety. Dean desperately wanted it to be real, but knew deep down that it wasn't. Castiel couldn't know what real love was, not yet, and even if he did the only reason he'd think he felt it for Dean was that he had been around too few other people. No one in their right mind could fall in love with him, not after getting to know him and — god forbid — go road tripping with him for months. He realized he'd have to straighten that up with Castiel before they left. They so did not need Sam in the midst of that discussion. Sam would probably just advocate for true love or some other bullshit, like the sensitive little twerp he was.

Dean grabbed his own bag and jogged down the stairs to reception. He slammed the room keys and a ten-dollar bill on the front desk, and walked over to the Impala. Castiel was leaning against the car, head downcast.

"You are not in love with me. It doesn't make sense. You should like nice women, you know like nice, regular women. You've been married to one. There's no way that you're n love with me. Now, me being in love with you, that makes a fuck-ton of sense, since you're all…" Dean trailed off. He realized that he A: was yelling and B: was yelling about stuff he had not minutes ago sworn he'd take to his grave. "Oh, for the love of…"

Dean's autopilot switched on, and he pushed Castiel against the car and kissed him. It was the only sensible thing to do. Castiel gave off a wounded sound like a dog's squeaky toy.

"This is bad," Dean gasped as he forced them to pause to breathe. Castiel wasn't listening, he was too busy pressing light kisses on his neck and jaw. His cold hands wandered up to tug at Dean's shirt, to eventually find naked skin and hipbones. It felt good, way too good. Though Castiel was all skinny, he was a lot softer than he looked. "Hey, hey, stop already."

"I don't think I care if you don't love me, as long as you let me do this. This is… this is…" Castiel's eyes teared up, as if Dean didn't feel bad already.

"We need to go. I mean. We need to get going or Sam is going to worry. I told him we'd be with him last night," Dean whispered. He needed to say it, as some stupid defense mechanism kicked in. The words hurt to say.

"Please, just… just a little more. I need this. I need you. I don't… I just…" Dean turned his head away, grim faced and knuckles going white. Castiel let go of his hips and feebly tried to smooth down Dean's t-shirt and shirt. "I'm sorry. We'll go now. Sorry. Let's just go…"

"Backseat," Dean growled. "Get on the backseat now."

Whenever Castiel wanted something, Dean did his best to get it for him, be it something small and trivial like a newspaper, or something virtually impossible like his Grace restored. Now that something was Dean himself, and he'd be damned before he denied Castiel that.

"Come on, we'll make it quick. Sam can wait a little longer." Castiel didn't need more encouragement. He crawled onto the backset and lay down on his back, like the night before. Dean kneeled over him, the back of his head pressed against the car roof.

"You have no idea how long I've thought of doing this."

"Yes, I do. I know."

"Fucking angel," Dean breathed and leaned down. They kissed again, soft and slow this time, and Dean liked it even better than the first time. He had thought a lot about that moment. The backseat of the Impala hadn't been his favorite setting, but it had occurred to him more than a few times.

Taking his sweet time, Dean unbuttoned Castiel's cardigan and shirt, and pushed the white t-shirt up to his armpits. Just touching and putting his mouth on warm skin was making him dizzy. Castiel was breathing heavily and didn't take his eyes of Dean, not for one moment.

Dean experimentally put his mouth on a nipple and flicked at it with his tongue. Castiel moaned and arched back with a jerk. His hands found their way to Dean's shoulders, pushed the leather jacket back and dug sharply into his muscles.

"Oh fuck, this is good, isn't it?"

Castiel hummed and didn't let go. Dean kissed his way down chest and stomach, until jeans stopped his way. He unzipped and edged them down the best he could in the cramped space, and then he paused. The other man was splayed out before him, human and hard and way too real. Both of them had goose bumps all over because, fuck, it was cold in the Impala.

"I love you," Dean said and meant it with his whole being. "Fuck, I love you."

Castiel stiffened and gave him a strange wide-eyed stare, and Dean was sure he had gone too far. The bottom of his stomach lurched downwards in free-fall, like someone had tugged his innards out through his toes. It only lasted for a second though.

"Dean, your butt is vibrating."

"Wha-" He fumbled with his pocket and fished out his cellphone. "Oh. Hey Sam. No, we're okay... No, nothing. Nonono, nothing at all. Listen, we're on our way. We'll be there. Okay." He threw the cellphone on the front seat. "Bitch."

Dean took a moment to just look at Castiel. He was fingering the buttons on Dean's still zipped up jeans and made a face that was both blissfully innocent and wicked. If only they had a few more hours, if only Sam wasn't waiting in Lexington, if only…

"We really should get going now," he said. "Crap."

Dean pulled up the angel's jeans best he could, and tugged down shirt and T-shirt. He still couldn't bear to completely let go of him though, and his hands unconsciously lingered on his thighs.

"Maybe we could do this another time. If you're not…" Castiel whispered. Dean almost laughed.

"Yes. Yes we sure as hell will. Don't you worry about that."

* * *

**THE END**


End file.
